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Not Where To Look For Answers

from Nothing In Particular by Adam Balbo

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He laid himself down. It was one AM. He was pretty tired.
He clapped with thunder to syncopate the falling raid.
He felt the hunger of a foreign place and a stomach pain.
He could not sleep. He paced the floor and approached the dark door
of his closet to check on the corpse of a secret he had laid.
But all he found was a mirror in a gutted room.

The room was empty except for portaits of baby’s smiles.
The mirror had two sides of which both were polished, but neither shined.
The walls were weary. They spoke with words of an empty rhyme.
The floor and ceiling had a similar pulse of an empty kind.
The air was hostile with a thick reserve and a handle on his mind.
All he knew was this place had known his name.

He entered anyway, reproached with fear. He had fate to blame.
His mind was shallow, fixed on in the hollow room.
The room was deep, though. It broke like waves made of infinite points.
He approached the ocean. He was half asleep and two-thirds dreaming.
It lay past the forest, which has no borders except on the plain.
All he found was the space that claimed no shape.

After swimming he pointed his nose to the dried out sky.
As dusk descended down, he was completely curious and one-third free.
His hands had tingles. His eyes, like arrows, pierced water beads.
The horizon circled him, undecided on just how dark to be.
The stars were peeking in. The moon was riding high, way past Venus.
He gazed up around at the shapes that took no space.

Most exhausted, he took his seat on the broken throne,
which still had décor of diamonds, jade, and a kernel of corn.
He dropped his crown next to himself on the sinking shore.
Right then he swore. He grabbed some dirt from the dirty floor.
But then the sand sang the cleanest tone that he never heard before.
It got so load, it made a crack in heaven’s dome.

He grabbed the armrests. He stood to walk, but he could not breathe.
His feet were planted in. His toes took root as he tried to leave.
His hands and eyelids got shriveled up like dried up leaves.
And then his pupil eyes turned to fruit, red ovaries.
His face had hardened stiff. His torso turned to the trunk of a tree.
And all that stood was a knotted old apple tree.

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from Nothing In Particular, released March 1, 2001

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